Author: meltingneurons

Where our main characters find themselves journeying apart from each other into adventures and places unknown in the hopes that they will reunite as realized and complete individuals on the other side….so we begin in Reno, NV…..

S & H at Taco Loco

Transcribe the hope I feelinto optimism and other such essential stuffs.Imbibe the flow of sweet spiritthat drips from off our lips and out our mouths.Believe in dreams meant not to fadeeven if the road has twisted uglier and uglier still.Hold tight to goals we sharedas our footsteps drift further and further apart.We’re still in love,and this journey which so profoundly changed usis not at its end yet – just an interlude.

I’m looking for a flow to spew,to vomit pained fire in words and lyrical nonsense,drench virtual paper in a cascade of feeling,wishing for the release of a moment where my fingertips pressonto keys melded into an outpouring of something greater than myself.I’m looking for a rhythm and a cadence,and empty hollow to rest my eyes and heart withinwhere my brain can’t intrude or interruptwhere the language is something not of word but made of a noise that comes from deeper downprimal and totally absent of definition.I’m looking for a tapping of keys that harmonizes with my feelingsand that calms waters boiling over with discontentwhere monsters lurk and playful creatures breathe imaginationas though it were the purest of aircarefree in their joy and hungerscontented to be their own masters and demanding nothing from anyone.I’m shaking the trees of logic and thoughtdemanding that they un-fucking-root and get on with the business of dyingso that chaos can wash over me as a wind of compassionletting me know that the madness is so very real that anything else was a facade and an illusionthat its okay and I’ve come home to rest where I belong.I’m lacing myself with poisons to calm the nervesincinerating the memories of dreams never to be realizedin pools of chemical passivitybleeding oil into my disquiet shoreswhere the glass and sand are never polished and always cutthough they shine like diamonds to lure you in.I’m hunting for a flow,that special moment when time collapses on itself and there is onenessunderstanding, immutable confidence, and a distant stareconnection to more, recognition and awareness, centered peace,consolidated thoughts, pacified emotions, acceptance, and satisfaction.I’m looking for a flow,one that tells me loneliness is temporary, and that the universe is there in all its infinity and splendorready to skull fuck me back into joy when it feels fitthat reminds me there’s no point sulking and being miserablethis is the human condition in all its shit stained raimantsand that I could be grateful for the ability and opportunity to experience it.I’m looking for a flow,but right now I’m just writing, and there’s no flow to be found.

Sardonic reserves of time kept patienceblending outward in rippling shades of hatred.Baby, you’ve got that heart shaped gaping woundsays you’re bathed in longing for now not soon.Nothing moves faster than a synapse firing off kilterblistering brain waves melting downwind all splintered.If the days were longer and I could taste your fearsall that we’d share could be understanding made clear.So if you’ll touch your enthusiastic distaste to minelets go passe with anticipation and the cheapest wine.Show me your ugly that I might gag and spewmy own redolent virus of loving life all over you

Melting Neurons resides in Wenatchee, WA where he lives with his wife, dog and stuffed owl. They hail from Bend, OR originally, except the dog, who’s a Texan death row survivor. His writing centers around a lifetime filled with adventures in schizoaffective bipolar, addiction, and the…

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It’s a much older post from someone I just stumbled across, but both her personal recognition and understanding of the challenges potentially faced along with her willingness to take the steps to educate responsibly her children – to make them aware – makes this a beautiful look at rather frightening issue. I have schizoaffective bipolar type 1 – I have two kids. Someday, my most fervent hope is that my ex-wife will let the kids have some form of contact with me so that I can share the unique world view that illness has allowed me to gather.

At the end of the day, mentally ill or otherwise, we are all individuals that are byproducts of the experiences we have endured and enjoyed in life. Our ethical compass and moral codes are the higher bar to which anyone can hold themselves. Having done wrong, been blessed with a disease of the mind, or anything right on down to addiction is just a hurdle, one that can be overcome and used to expand the acceptable norm to a degree that is more inclusive, more universal, and more loving.

The other day someone sent me a message on The Lithium Chronicles Facebook page, asking me why I didn’t feel guilty for having children because I have Bipolar Disorder. Now normally when I get questions in my inbox I post them, not only to answer them publicly, but also to let others share their experiences and feelings. I left this question unanswered, and instead decided to address it here, in a blog post.

Do I feel guilty for having children when I knew I had bipolar disorder? The answer is an unflinching and resounding NO. I do not feel guilty. My children are a blessing and I, despite my illness or maybe even because of it, am a great mother.

But what if they are diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder or some other Mental Illness?

Well if that’s the case, I had better blaze the best trail possible for them…

Like this:

We were doing laundry during “Free Washing & Drying” day sponsored by a local church. The gent who runs everything hasn’t been pressuring or overbearing when it comes to religion and we’ve gotten to know him very well over the last year. He has asked us to come speak at his congregation this upcoming Sunday before I leave for my new job to comment about the changes this last year has brought into our lives.

There’s every reason for us to do it, and I’ve started trying to lay out what I’d like to say since my wife is anxious about public speaking, particularly to a denomination which she was indoctrinated in by way of abuse in a dozen ways through her entire childhood, leaving mental scarring that is still a struggle to this day. She’s going to go though, because it’s important, and the gentleman who has been there for us every two weeks for 10-months to pay for our laundry when we had not a penny to our names, deserves to know the impact that has had on us.

When you’re homeless, a clean pair of socks and underwear is better then the best sex you’ve ever had. It’s a moment where you feel again human, part of, connected, capable, possibilities actually seem possible again, confidence soars, misery slackens and you can see a trail forward again. Think I’m joking? Try wearing the same clothes and not showering for 7-10 days at a time and still engaging in your standard day-to-day routine without feeling outsidered and uncomfortable. Even a rotation will have you slicked down with the grime of the world in no time and my hat’s off to you if you’re unfazed by the experience in this materialistic and impression based existence we all inhabit.

After agreeing, I headed down to the best damn burrito joint in the whole of creation, Taco Loco, aptly named for the disgustingly sized plates of filth meat fixings they dish our at poverty acceptable pricing. Friendly staff and owners too, always smiling.

After ordering and having a smoke outside I walked back in to pay. I hadn’t noticed earlier the elderly family dining in the corner. I hadn’t noticed the bearded gentleman and his yarmulke calmly resting on the top of his head. Being a misanthropic and culturally insensitive clod and a twat–along with a Jew myself–I’ve referred to them as “head condoms” at different points.

Sensitivity has never been my thing clearly.

I hadn’t seen anyone wearing one since New York City ages ago. In this political climate it’s like wearing a target on your head and declaring that you’d like to be sent to the modern day concentration camps when they’ve scraped the hispanic blood off the floor sufficiently to allow the next round of victims.

Politely I interrupted the conversation between the two men (the bearded man’s wife was sitting to the side and helped me find a segue while they were engaged to let me slide in).

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m Jewish as well and I haven’t seen a yarmulke in ages. I just wanted to say hello and introduce myself.”

The bearded man stood up, and shook my hand. We got down to chatting.

He’s from Hawaii and didn’t know any local groups that might facilitate my wife and myself engaging with the faith to understand my roots better or foster a better understanding. He journeys to Auschwitz once a year in honor of the sacrifices there. He has a bat shit crazy Rabbi he loves learning from. On his arm, he has tattooed a series of numbers (amidst the others) to express his solidarity with members of his faith. He’s not old enough to have earned them the usual way, but feels they bring him to be more connected with his people.

He wears his yarmulke as a “fuck you” to the climate of hate and rising fascism that is bubbling over across the world. He knows it brings notice, he knows that many people stare at him and consider him abhorrent. He’s aware the danger it brings. Quoting “Transmetropolitan” – he doesn’t give two tugs off a dead dog’s cock about what any of those fuckers thinks about him. He does it to inspire his brethren to not hide ashamed and be true to their spirit and beliefs.

He does it because it helps him be proud of his faith, and if someone is offended by his passive display of confidence, it’s because they are weak in their own and it is not his responsibility to fix stupid.

I went back to the laundromat and had a conversation about ghosts and the possessed copper carousel that I once owned which glowed under Luminol spray and left a soaked patch of luminescence two feet wide beneath it whenever it was placed in a new room.

I met a real man today. What a fucking inspiration.

Fuck the new age Nazis and this puppet regime of misdirection that panders to the ignorant jackals across the world and at home. Bring me your seething falsely righteous hatred of a people and I’ll raise you an old man with a little hat and a my own fist.

I’d put my money on you cowardly shitbitten assholes backing down every time.

Like this:

Lick my frustration laden eye trailswith your feverish degree of need.I’ve pulled apart my patience in brushstrokes,and sit damming rampant torrents of greed.Traipsing through a shutter-box as thougha thrown skein of glass trapped thoughts.Spending words of do not try a thousand timesuntil they’re echoing so loud it hurts.There is less difficulty here then meets the eye,even when it’s filled with sorrow.We’re on endless roads, journeying upwardon travels through time into tomorrow. The final hurdle is simply to start the race,get up off your ass and focus. Move away from rabbit holes and wasted dayslest the world consume us as the locusts.

When I show up and use a prepaid debit card with borrowed funds and a big grin while spouting the sweetest “thank you” ever heard to the check-in lady–ignore the fact my clothes are second hand. Ignore that from a material standpoint, virtually everything I’m wearing is from homeless shelters, the YWCA, and the generosity of strangers and family. One of the necklaces I have on is from a cellmate when I was in jail, the other is a gift from my wife, neither ever comes off. A reminder of what awaits when my control slips, the other a reminder to be grateful for the people in my life who mean more than things–something I’ve consistently been terrible at remembering.

The suitcase I have has traveled more than 42 residence moves, endless hotels, the streets, and being encased in the coffin of my truck bed while filled with the only non-destroyed dress pairs of shoes I own. In point, the ones I’ll be wearing which are from a Goodwill purchased on my wedding day, another pair came from the local 7th Day Adventist thrift store on our bi-monthly free clothing visit. I once owned a brown, $700 pair of Italian handcrafted leather wingtips that fit around the cedar shoe trees as perfectly as my feet and sat in shoe bags so as not to be scuffed. These days, you’re more likely to see me wearing absurd Size 13 flip flops I accidentally purchased and for some reason couldn’t part with. I’m a size 10.5.

My bracelet was the first item I bought for myself when I moved to Oregon. It came at the same time as a pair of beautiful green earrings for my then new girlfriend. When I sued her for the return of my stuff it came to light that her mother had stolen them along with the cell phone I tried to return. That same woman kept my dress clothes and shoes I had put into storage, changed the lock, and had me trespassed from the property. That was a year ago and just like every other time I’d lost everything, I’ve gotten used to not having as much. The bracelet is banged up, missing insets and can be generally uncomfortable, but it’s mine and there are a host of memories attached to the feel of it’s rougher edges cutting into my wrist while I type on the computer.

That’s what it boils down to: memories–items, trinkets, keepsakes, notebooks, letters, a pair of socks, a favored t-shirt, a picture–everything is a memory unto itself in some sense. Those are what I miss more than anything as I find my recall to be less then lucid owing to the PTSD and schizoaffective bipolar. Like I’m fishtailing through a swimming pool of ideas more than memories in any sort of recognizable pattern. Concrete items help lock down specifics in a tactile fashion as though a smell conjuring up the taste of grandma’s sugar cookies.

Just like the suitcase I’ll drag to the elevator has the mental odor of a hundred hotels I stayed in with it when I was last a corporate man traveling the country by plane, train, and automobile. It remembers the blackout drinking, the shakes in the morning, desperate preparations in strange towns trying to banish the heebie-jeebies from my body in time to present rationally to the next client. New York City, Philadelphia, D.C., San Francisco, Detroit, Chicago, Nashville, Orlando, Raleigh, Baltimore, Rochester, Binghampton, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas, Denver, and every damn city in New England to boot. My bag remembers a time when we stayed at nice hotels and flew 1st class because we were Gold Elite or Platinum mileage members and had a reason to be going from point A to B that didn’t involve simply surviving for another day.

It remembers being filled with the stuffed pig I would take pictures of in all those cities to send home to my son and ex-wife to let them know I was thinking of them. Being crammed with apology gifts for when I hit it too hard and forgot to call home because I was passed out or indisposed with a drinks meeting that night.

I’m sure it remembers being stuffed in with everything I was allowed to salvage from the house when the divorce started. That was the storage unit, 10’10’ space packed full, that I used to sleep in some days when I was too beat. I would lay my head on it like a pillow and bungie cord the door shut since there was no lock on the inside.

Because it remembers those things, holds them in the toughened fabric sewn to it’s exterior and it’s still rolling wheels, I can still feel those moments as vibrant as they were when they happened.

When I get to the room, you won’t see the mixed look of shock and delight on my face when I lay down in a normal bed, or take a shower with hot water and comfortably dry off rather than contort in the space available at home or the local truck stop. You won’t see the delight when I shave, appreciating the joys of a full mirror and a counter to lay things on. The last sigh as I close my eyes in a fully darkened room without dogs barking, goats bleating, and crazy midnight dazed roosters crowing away convinced the stars must just be confused suns needing to be warned away.

Next time you’ll see me is catching the 6:45am shuttle to the training center. You won’t know this backstory either, this is my life story and while I’ll share it with the world proudly, I know when to keep certain things under wraps. After all, I’m back to being regarded as a competent adult male who knows his shit, and you know what, I do. For every moment of doubt that might materialize, or second of uncertainty edge its way through to rut against the fundamental sense of confidence I have to nurture daily–for every one of those moments I can recover with a sense of gratitude and awareness I once lacked. I do know my shit. I’m grateful to be able to say that comfortably, though I will always remain open to learning more.

This time I’m not going to feel like I shouldn’t be where I am. That the world was just messing with me, getting my goat by pretending that I was a real boy and letting me play dress up as an adult. I’ve paid my dues, and I know my intentions. I’m going into this with knowledge of myself, the good and the bad. I have a partner/wife who is behind me and supportive as I have never experienced. She deserves my undivided time and attention, I will not slip into the mentality of unappreciative disdain for others in lieu of burying myself in the job. I will maintain the vicious degree of honesty by which I live my life and the understated fact that I don’t change who I am for anybody–take me or leave me, I am enthusiastic, creative, weird as hell, and 100% genuine. Let’s see how that shakes out this time as I step back into the corporate sales world.

You will see a big smile, teeth perfectly aligned and shockingly intact despite decades of drug abuse, hair combed, suit jacket fitted precisely, shirt pressed, bracelet and watch sparkling, shoes polished and clean shaven with eyes glittering a million laughs and adventures into the air between us.

I’m happy to be there, I’m thrilled to meet you, and I’m actually excited for this challenge. Let’s get this show on the road, because I have a wife and dog who deserve to not be crammed into a broken down RV missing it’s ceiling where the water damage was worst, someone who never asks for much but has earned the right to be supported as she pursues her own dreams in education and life. People who believed in me and lent hands to repay, child-support to pay and an ex-wife to sue for access to my children so I can try to set things right with the ones who never did anything wrong or asked for anything more than to be loved. Friends to show that anything is possible, that it can be achieved, you can change your direction in life no matter how low down the ladder you have gone.

I might even buy a pair of size 10.5 flip flops if things go really well. But I would never get rid of the old clown shoes–after all, they have some stories to tell.